


Deepest Regret

by yougottalivetoseeit



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Deja Vu, Parallel Lives, grantaire and the general are the same person, not really graphic violence but just in case, prepare yourself for lots of it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-07
Updated: 2013-04-07
Packaged: 2017-12-07 18:44:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/751785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yougottalivetoseeit/pseuds/yougottalivetoseeit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Inspired by the fact that Hadley Fraser plays Grantaire in the 25th and the National Guard in the movie plus the fact that Tom Hooper said that the army general grew up with Enjolras)</p><p>Grantaire didn't manage to wake up in time, and struck by misery, he joins the army.</p><p>Sixteen years later, he is sent to defeat a revolutionaries' barricade. But the events are too familiar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deepest Regret

**Author's Note:**

> Now, I have to say. This is going to be absolutely miserable, and Angst all the way. I'm writing another ansty long one right now, and I can't seem to stop.  
> This fic might cause a lot of confusion, but I hope it doesn't. But if it does, comment and I'll straighten it out.
> 
> I warn you, the first chapter is very sad....

Grantaire woke up from his slumber, sensing the eerie silence around him. His head hurt. All he remembered was downing bottle after bottle of absinthe the previous night, trying to forget the fact that they would all face their deaths in the morning. The fact that _Enjolras_ would die in the morning.

 

And yet it was morning now, and he straightened up slowly, nursing the pounding headache. It was too quiet, but he was not sure if it was the ringing in his head that caused the silence, or if it was real. His eyes focused on a figure slumped on the floor. Had there been other drinkers in the Musain last night? Grantaire didn’t know.

 

He slowly stood up, heading towards the figure. He recognized that coat. It was Bossuet's. He always wore it, even though Joly hated it. Said it got rid of the bad luck. He kicked him lightly, to rouse him, to ask him what was going on. But the body only rolled lifelessly and Grantaire noticed a spot of red on his shirt.

 

A bullet wound.

 

He started to retch.

 

When he was done emptying his stomach of what little there was, he looked around, his vision clearer.

 

The sun was up high, and it seemed like past noon.

 

Enjolras had said that the National Guard would probably attack at dawn.

 

His stomach dropped a mile, and he hurried, bile rising in his throat, outside of the café. He coughed, something in the air irritating his lungs. His eyes watered in the probable assumption that it was gunpowder.

 

When he went outside, the sight made him sob and drop to his knees. The barricade had fallen, great holes gaping in the places that it had been shot by a cannon, it seemed. Why hadn’t he woken up despite there being cannons in the attack, he could not know. He rushed to the destroyed jumble of furniture and started weeping. He stroked a chair leg, remembering that particular one. He had kissed Madame Huchelop in his haste to help the cause, to help Enjolras-

 

And the thought made him crash back into sobs. Dried blood was everywhere, and with his wet tears falling, they started to flow again, like a river.

 

He lifted his head, and there he saw the body of Combeferre, lying alongside the corpse of a soldier. The stupid man, with his stupid righteous beliefs. He probably got himself killed while trying to help that enemy soldier. Grantaire wanted to weep, but no more tears would come. Instead, he stood up to grab the dead body.

 

It was cold, without the usual warmth that Combeferre would bestow upon everybody who needed it. Pushing the thought aside, Grantaire pulled the body into the side room of the Musain, placing it down gently and shutting his eyelids closed.

 

“May you rest in peace, Combeferre. I do not doubt for a moment that if there is a heaven above, you would be guiding all of our friends to the Promised Land.” Grantaire choked, going back outside to complete his ritual.

 

“Gavroche, Gavroche…. You have died a hero’s death, and we all admired you greatly. You were destined for great things, and you have achieved more than I have, or will.”

 

“Feuilly, I know we weren’t close. But your heart, your devotion… I have always admired how you would absorb yourself into your work. Rest in peace, brother.”

 

“Bahorel… I can almost picture you, and I refuse to believe that you went out without a fight. Half of those bodies must be your doing. Well done, friend. You tried your best.”

 

“Courfeyrac…. I can’t even begin to describe my sorrow. You were the light in all our lives, the center, and yet you are gone. Where will my world rest now? You have given me too much of a burden to deal with now. Take good care of everybody else up there. I know you will.”

 

“Joly, if I know you correctly, you would be jumping up and down in heaven, complaining about how bullet wounds can cause serious infections. Do not lose your heart, and fly away to freedom.”

 

“Jehan Prouvaire. I am not a man of eloquence as you were, and so I keep it simple. Free your soul, and rest, my dear friend.”

 

“Amen.” He whispered, for friends who couldn’t hear him, to a god he didn’t believe in. He had gathered all the bodies left in the battlefield, and he had found all of his friends, save for two. Marius and Enjolras.

 

Marius, he hoped that the romantic had lived. It would have been such a shame for him to have found true love, and lose it so quickly. His heart ached as he thought about love. He had loved the fool, the blonde ball of passion who had never spared him a second glance. Whom he had failed until his last moment. His heart faltered at the idea that Enjolras’ last impression of him would have been a failure.

 

Yet there was no sign of his body, not in the battlefield. Not even when he had ventured to the opposing site to gather Prouvaire’s body, not even then. And for a slight moment, Grantaire allowed himself to hope, to think that maybe, his Apollo would somehow be alive, and he stumbled out into the fresh air, now slowly clearing of gunpowder.

 

And then he saw it.

 

He should have known, really. Ever the martyr, he was, and he shouldn’t have expected his Apollo to have died alongside mere mortals. No, the revolutionary had to die his own death. And the result was literally hanging in front of his eyes.

 

Approaching the corpse cautiously, he gently reached out to touch the cold skin of the man he had admired, venerated and loved. Although he had run out of tears long before, he broke down sobbing on his knees, looking upon the body of his marble god.

 

When he finally regained himself, it was almost sunset. Turning his eyes away, he gently put his arms around the shoulders and tugged, prying his foot out from the ledge it had caught. He was about to pull him to the room where all the others were laid, side by side, when something caught his eye.

 

A coffin, something he vaguely remembered from building the barricade, it had fallen off of its original place, and _how ironic, they all died at the barricade emblazoned with a coffin –_ and was conveniently lying right in front of him. In a whim, he gently lifted the body into the coffin, and straightened out the perfect blonde locks.

 

“I know you would berate me for not dying for the cause as you did. And it is with utmost regret that I regard your death, the fact that you had to die alone. You would be mad at me even now, demanding that you should have been laid alongside your friends, not in a coffin like some royalty. But spare me this one last vice, one that I have never been able to have. Rest in peace, my Apollo, my Enjolras.”

 

And with one last, longing look at the mesmerizing blue eyes that had captivated him so, he dragged the eyelids shut and kissed his forehead before closing the lid of the coffin.

 

He regretted everything bitterly, but most of all, he regretted being alive.


End file.
